There’s a tapping sound, like plastic on a hard surface - then a swift snort, followed by two sharp sniffles. She re-enters the frame wiping her nose and is seated.
Her attention settles on the table, the release of tears - she lifts the bottle and pours one more, without drinking.
“The night of the 11th, it was after midnight - maybe closer to one, making it the 12th - my birthday. I broke into the daycare.”
She takes a healthy pull from the glass.
“I almost talked myself out of this one.”
She wipes her eyes and face.
“But I had to see it through.”
Darcy takes a long, deep breath. Her expression contorts, she sobs with mournful abandon - covering her face with both hands - the tormented wailing muffled.
She finds a break in the upheaval.
“I went into the kitchen, looked around. There was a giant pitcher of fruit punch or juice in the fridge. It was nearly full.”
She tilts her head back, rolls it side to side.
“I had ten bottles of eye drops - six into the pitcher.”
She reaches for the glass and finishes its contents.
“There were two plastic containers of cookies on the counter. A bottle in each.”
Darcy turns sideways and doubles over in her chair - howling, convulsing as she wept.
“I saw the news report and knew I’d made a horrific mistake!” she concedes between sobs.
“Twenty-seven babies! Three to six years-old!”
She screeches a few unintelligible words, guilt and shame eating her alive.
“I didn’t want them to have a lifetime of suffering!”
The fury settles, she catches her breath.
“I was wrong.”
She blots her face with the hem of her shirt.
“I truly believed this was the only way of granting mercy on the innocent - but it wasn’t.”
Darcy stands and walks out of frame. Close to a minute elapses before her return. She takes her seat, throws the glass into the kitchen and chugs from the bottle.
Her dead eyes grip the camera lens -
“That’s all.”
The detectives watch Darcy end her life with a self-inflicted gunshot.
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